


Just A Kid From Brooklyn

by KuriKoer



Category: Captain America, Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Crossdressing, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Other, UST, slashy but not slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-20 02:33:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KuriKoer/pseuds/KuriKoer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain America has a secret</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just A Kid From Brooklyn

**Author's Note:**

> To thimpressionist, for the lovely conversation.

Steve stood out. Of course he stood out, he was Captain America, that was what he was on that stage for, to stand out, to shine bright, to fake-punch fake-Hitler in the face over and over while the spotlight was on him and in the back, two-dozen girls did their kick and dance routine. Thing is, Steve hated the spotlight. He was good at it, but that didn't mean he liked it.

Sometimes he envied the girls, how they'd huddle in groups of three and four after the show, compare notes. How they'd help each other with the costume before going on stage, making sure the straps were all in the right place, that the little hats were pinned properly to their long, flowing hair, tied up demurely for the show. He was enough 'one of the girls' that they didn't mind him wandering around their dressing room before and after the shows, so long as he didn't go behind the changing area's curtain, not that Steve ever dreamed of doing such a thing. He'd blush to his very core just to think they were there, invisible to him, chattering pleasantly in their underthings. Their sturdy, practical, wartime-modest and still adorned with a thin stripe of lace, with a satin flower here and there, underthings. Steve left the room to get some frosty West Europe air on his heated cheeks.

Ella hurried after him, calling his name. He turned; she was still half in her outfit, the short, cheerfully coloured skirt, but she had a big coat over it, wrapped tight and warm around her. She caught up with him, careful not to get mud all over her tap shoes.

"Steve, the girls all want to go down to town together. Safer, you know," she gave him an easy smile and he nodded dumbly. "Anyway, someone's got to stay and lock up after lights out. Do you think you could..."

"Sure thing," Steve said, giving her a little smile. He could dazzle the dames these days, but with the chorus girls he felt at home enough to just be himself. Mostly.

"You're such a gentleman," Ella said, pleased, and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.

*

He was alone in the half-dark dressing room, idly waiting for the bugle to announce it was time to lock up, shut down, and head out. He thought about the line of chorus girls, each unique and familiar to him by name and personality, but all dressed to match in their cheery uniform. His own 'uniform' was uniform with no one else's. It was a one-of-a-kind design. Just like he was; one of a kind supersoldier, with no one else to match. Everyone kept telling him that, pumping the information far and wide. No one thought it might be weird for him, to be one of a kind. Steve wandered between the chairs, looking around, peeking behind the curtain quickly before backing away and returning to the main dressing room. Someone left a red and white skirt over the back of her chair. A piece of crumpled fabric was on the floor, and Steve picked it up, only to discover it was ladies' underwear. He dropped it as if it burned his hand and looked around guiltily. The place was empty. Steve looked around again, strained to listen to any sound. Then he bent and picked up the garment again.

It wasn't sexy, or at least, it wasn't the kind of lingerie seen on pin-up postcards, or racy cabaret ladies. It was thick cotton, beige, and large. Steve held it, feeling his breath quicken, his face heat up. He thought he'd heard something, but that was only his own heart beating in his ears.

He was hurting no-one. He repeated that to himself resolutely, picking up the discarded skirt and the beige panties, heading behind the curtain despite the fact the whole place was abandoned and that he was the only one with any reason to be here until tomorrow morning. He would be hurting no one, he would be seen by no one, this was nothing but a bit of harmless laugh and he could barely breathe for fear. Steve, who was never afraid. Far in the distance, he could hear the guns roaring. And here he was, one of a kind super chorus girl. He'd heard the soldiers mocking him behind his back. He didn't need them to say what he already thought; he wasn't one of their own. He never would be.

He was standing in his own underwear, white and clean, all his clothes rumpled on the floor by his feet, his head peeking over the curtain, watching the abandoned dressing room, the light bulbs around the mirrors, the little hats in a row. In a decisive, quick movement, Steve peeled off his shorts and pulled on the beige panties.

They were tight; he had to reach in and arrange himself three times before they became more comfortable. They held his cock tightly contained, restrained, that part of him he had least control over, except for his heart. Steve took another shuddering breath, and pulled on the red and white Captain America Chorus Girl skirt.

It spread around his thighs like a fan. When he moved, it swished, moving with him, feathery light against his skin, his hairy legs. He couldn't zip the side of it, too wide to fit where the girls' narrow waists were. He tried to wiggle his leg a little, like they did. He turned back and kicked up once, high in the air. It was ridiculous. The cotton stretched tight on his crotch. He took a deep breath.

There was a noise; soldiers on the muddy path outside, the laughter of camaraderie over a shared joke. They clearly weren't heading in, but Steve still jumped nearly out of his skin, freezing in place until he could hear the voices no longer. Only when they were gone he dared to move. He peeled the skirt and the underwear off his body, hurriedly throwing his own clothes back on as quickly as he could. He returned both items to where he'd found them, wishing the girls wouldn't notice they were differently folded, hoping he got the chairs right. He paced the room's length nervously twice, worry welling in his chest, and then he turned off all the lights and left the dressing room. He loitered in the main hall, at the foot of the stage, until it was time to lock down, and then he snuck back to his quarters and said nothing to no one until the next day.

*

That was then. It wasn't that long after that he went for Bucky, that he discovered HYDRA, that Howard gave him his shield, that Peggy gave him that look. Everything happened all at once. He had a purpose, he had his friends, he was one of the men and a leader among them. War was raging, life was overhauled and troubled, and Steve had but little time to himself before taking that plunge deep into the ice, deep into a dreamless sleep that lasted, he was to discover, for decades.

And then there was SHIELD, and Fury, the new world, modern and rushing by, the war over and long forgotten by youths that never had to fight, new wars since fought and forgotten as well. Steve was just getting used to it when the Avengers assembled, when he met the team that would be his team, the people who were nothing like each other and wore no uniform and still fought as a unit to save the earth from... aliens, apparently... and he was just getting to know them, just getting to know the world around him, this great country of his at modern peace time.

And it was different.

He turned his head after an especially tall lady in impossible heels and bright red hair he could swear wasn't real. The woman's arms were as thick as his.

"Um, was that..."

"Yeah. Don't stare," Tony advised him. And that was another thing, Tony, Howard's _son_. Howard's son was older than him. Somehow. Teaching him things. Teaching him about phones with pictures in them, and about computers that talk back to you and know the weather everywhere on the planet, and about why riding a motorcycle without a helmet is illegal now. And about ladies in high heels who were as tall and as muscular as Steve himself. "It's a freer world," Tony said with a hint of a snigger. Steve tried not to stare, but that woman wore lipstick the exact same shade Peggy had on when he'd last seen her.

*

Apparently, if he asked JARVIS not to tell Tony something, JARVIS wouldn't. And the computer knew where all the right stores in town were. He also offered to order something for Steve 'online', but Steve declined. That was too scary for him, and he still wasn't sure what Tony could see of all the strange 'code' inside JARVIS. He'd just go to a store.

"Um, for a girlfriend," Steve said, feeling warmth to the tips of his ears. The woman behind the counter nodded at him patiently.

"What's her size?"

Steve tried not to let pure terror show on his face, and held his hands apart, conveying a width about the same as his own. He hoped the lady wouldn't notice.

If she did, she said nothing. She led him to some shelves and asked him what he had in mind, and he stared at her again helplessly. She asked him if he wanted 'sexy lingerie' and he shook his head vigorously, managing to mumble something about comfortable fabrics, basic design, and so she shrugged and led him to another shelf, leaving him alone with what looked to be hundreds of options. Underwear, like phones, like cars, like everything, had evolved. They had them in every color, every kind, from really tiny things that Steve wasn't sure were meant to be underwear at all, to things that looked like his own boxer-briefs. They had prints of them, a thousand different kinds, cherries, smiling faces, flowers, even puppies. He tried to look without touching anything, but he had to push aside a pair of ones with a cartoon cat's face on them to clearly see what he thought he saw. A pair of white cotton panties with Captain America's star-and-shield printed in a very central location. Steve winced. He was fast becoming overwhelmed, and he glanced nervously around him, but thankfully the store was still empty, except for the lady back behind the counter. She made a point of not looking at him though, staring down at a newspaper. Steve was grateful.

Eventually he picked out three pairs, grabbing hurriedly and trying to hide them behind his back as he marched back to the cash register. "And, um, a skirt."

The lady stopped tapping the buttons on her computer. "What kind?"

Steve felt sure his face was burning up. He moved his hands around his hips, trying to signify the loose fabric he remembered, the movement and the twirl of it. The woman stared at him blankly for a moment, and Steve wondered briefly if she was maybe a spy, like the Black Widow. Her face betrayed absolutely nothing. Then she clicked on another keyboard, turning a computer screen to face him.

"Like that?"

He nodded, mute, mouth dry, palms sweaty.

"That's a pleated cheerleader skirt," the woman said carefully. "We have some in the back, I think, that would be the right size."

She led him behind a curtain. Steve swallowed and tried to calm himself. It was only a curtain. It was only a store. He had every right to be here.

Except there were women's faces on all the boxes, women in the posters hanging on the walls. Scantily clad women, some fully dressed women, but all women. They walked between two rows of shelves, the woman not looking left or right, Steve stealing glances at a wealth of fashion choices he was previously unaware of, and then they turned a corner.

There was a poster on the wall with a gorgeous woman who still caught Steve's eye as different. There was something about her he couldn't pinpoint, but made him uncomfortable. There were clothes hanging here, full outfits, and also shoe boxes, that seemed to be for larger sizes than the ones out front. There was a small table with cards and flyers, and Steve glanced at it, trying to figure out what it was. As far as Tony made it seem, communist propaganda was legal now, so there was no need to hide it in back rooms.

A bell rang, and the woman said, "I'll leave you here for a while," disappearing to wait on whatever other costumers she had. Steve shrank back, but there was no way anyone at the front of the store could see him where he was. He dared to take a closer look at the colourful papers and postcards on the table.

And it was like a whole other world opened up before him.

He didn't understand half the words, and was shocked to the core at half the pictures, but he knew what he was seeing; he may have been a bit behind, but he was not actually new on this planet like some people. And contrary to popular belief, people were not innocent nor made of stone in the 1940s, or 1930s. Steve was willing to bet they weren't back in the 1840s, either. He darted another look at the offerings on the table, and then went, feeling foolishly brave, to rifle through the hanging clothes.

There were things his size there. There were things _Thor's_ size. There were skirts and dresses, and the kind of lingerie he saw on the boxes out front, there were frilly things and lacy things and leather things and some kind of rubber things. And there were simple things. Not many, but there were. Steve's eyes suddenly burned with something that might have been relief. He fingered some of the clothes, and after a moment's hesitation took out two outfits. One was a cheerleader costume, shorter and skimpier than any he'd seen on actual cheerleaders back in his day, but things had definitely changed in every area. It was the closest he could find to a chorus girl costume; the skirt was about right, and the colours. The other thing he picked was a simple white dress, down below his knees, in an old-fashioned style that looked almost comfortable. As much as a light summer dress could ever be comfortable for a man to wear. He touched the fabric, and thought it was softer than any of his outerwear clothes had ever been.

He heard the woman clearing her throat and turned on his heel, but she was on the far end of the room, behind the curtain separating the front from the storage area, and unable to see him.

"May I come in?" she called out, and Steve was touched by the consideration.

"Yes, I'm done here," he said loudly, and only then did her steps draw closer. She smiled at him, almost pitying.

"Did you find something your size?" she asked quietly, and Steve nodded, feeling strangely liberated. She knew what he was there for, and she did not judge him; in fact, the store was geared for his kind, he was almost certain of it now.

"I'd like to buy these two," he said, holding up the hangers with the outfits he'd chosen.

"Very good," the woman said, nodding for him to follow. She wrapped his purchases in inconspicuous bags, brown and gold, with only a small logo in the corner and no store name. Steve held them under his arm with a sigh of relief, and asked the price.

That was a problem. He didn't have nearly enough cash.

He did have two cards. The one SHIELD gave him, which he had no intention of using here, at all, ever, and the one Tony gave him, suggesting with his customary generosity that he'd 'go party' and 'get a less grampa wardrobe'. Steve was wary and uncomfortable taking advantage of that generosity. However, the cards were given to him for a reason. It was nearly impossible to handle himself in today's world without them. He gave the lady Stark's card wordlessly.

With the transaction done, he thanked her and was about to go, when she stopped him, leaning forward. "If you ever want to come in just to check out the business cards," she said softly, referring to the flyers and invites on the table in the back, "you're always welcome."

"Thank you," he said again, sincerely.

Walking out into the street had a jarring effect, eerily similar to that he'd felt the first time he saw this century's New York. The store was quiet and oddly accepting, but out here in the harsh light of day he was still an awkward man out of time, holding women's clothing in the unassuming bags under his arm. He almost wanted to bolt back inside. However, home was not very far - home, strangely, in an ugly, ostentatious tower with the rest of his teammates, with Tony's mark on every newly-designed nook and cranny. Steve had to smile. At least he could trust security; unless there was another alien invasion, no one was likely to enter his room without his permission. He could lock the door behind him and no-one would interrupt or even notice.

*

The first time Steve had the courage to put on his new purchases in the safety of his room at the Avengers Tower, he checked with JARVIS three times over to make sure there were no security cameras, that the door was indeed locked, and that there was nothing on the horizon SHIELD-wise.

It was six in the evening. At first he thought to try this after midnight, but then admitted that he was the only one in the building to keep any semblance of normal hours. The other current inhabitants were as likely to be having lunch at four in the morning as not. Tony and Bruce spent hours holed up in the R&D labs, testing new toys that made Steve's head spin; the Widow and Hawkeye kept their own time. Thor, when he was still around, kept reasonable sleep and meal times, Steve thought with a sigh. The Asgardian also liked sparring before breakfast. He was a nice guy to be around, and a good guy to have at your back in a fight, and sometimes Steve missed his presence. It just gave him someone to talk to.

Thor, he knew, would understand this even less than the rest. Or he would chalk it up as just another weird 'Midgard' thing.

Steve looked at the ceiling and sighed. "Are you sure I'm alone on this floor," he started again.

"Agents Barton and Romanoff are away from the premises," JARVIS said, with the same polite tone that no human could keep when asked the same thing for the fourth time, "Dr. Banner is in his laboratory. Aside from Mr. Stark, there are no other people, or anything that matches a similar value to people, in the building. Ms. Potts is expected to visit later tonight, in two and a half hours if I'm not mistaken."

A thought struck Steve. "Where _is_ Tony?" he asked suspiciously.

Was it his imagination, or was there a brief pause? "Mr. Stark is currently in bed, in his rooms," JARVIS said crisply.

Asleep at six PM, Steve thought. Everything was strange in this building, and everyone. He was just another weird thing here. It was almost comforting.

The top of his cheerleader outfit was almost as old-fashioned as his real uniform, brightly colored and simple, sleeveless but covering him up to his neck. It was a little short at the bottom, not exactly exposing more than a hint of his abdomen, but crawling up every time he moved his arms or stretched. The skirt... was short. The skirt was really short. Face burning scarlet, almost as bright as the red of the uniform, Steve turned a little and tried to see if it was too short. He slipped down his own underwear. Yup, the skirt was indecent like that. He picked one of the pairs of panties he'd bought, simple cotton in narrow black and white horizontal stripes, and slid it up his legs, pausing to lift the skirt and try to adjust everything he had into the cotton. There wasn't much room.

He started breathing too fast again. He felt it go to his head.

He calmed himself, like he always did, listening to his heart thudding in his chest. He sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing the pleated skirt down over his thighs. That was all; he sat there for a while, he wasn't sure for how long, but it couldn't have been more than twenty minutes. Then he got up, removed all the clothes, folded them neatly back into the bag, and shoved the bag carefully under the bed. He went to take a long, hot shower, and when he was out again, drying his hair with a sinfully, luxuriously fluffy white towel, the clock showed six-forty-five.

*

The white dress was every bit as light and soft on his body as it had promised on the hanger in the store. A few weeks later, it was the second time he was wearing it, alone in his room, and Steve almost ached to know what it would feel like outdoors, in the evening's fresh air. The temperature inside was perfectly kept, but Steve wanted some real wind on his face. He opened the window cautiously, but nothing bad happened when he exposed the world to his secret. Only the light breeze caressing his warm skin, comforting invisible fingers soothing his shame. He imagined standing outside on the balcony, under the early night's sky, looking up at the twinkling stars, feeling the air on his neck, on his legs, the fabric loose and flowing around him. It must be such a freeing sensation. Only that morning he'd stumbled back into the house, his uniform clinging to him with sweat and mud and blood. It had taken a good long shower to get that crawling feeling off his skin, and then he had put on slacks and a button-down shirt for the briefing and the visit to the infirmary. Steve was glad to be on his own again, letting the worries off his shoulders for what little time he could allow himself.

"I sort of want to ask you to dance, but I'm afraid you'll punch me in the face," Tony said slowly behind him.

Steve turned, startled, battle instincts kicking in. He was almost more afraid than he was mortified. There would be time for mortified later. The swift turn caused the dress to swish and furl around him, and he would have appreciated the grace of it if it wasn't for Tony's dark eyes resting on him, strange and unreadable in the dim light. Steve opened his mouth, but he could find no response. He thought he might start to hyperventilate, like he did when he was young, when the asthma would take his breath away and cause him to collapse in on himself when the world became too much. But it had been many years since he'd last felt that clutch of dread around his lungs.

"You're very pretty," Tony said, and Steve heard him distantly over the thundering of his own heartbeat. "But you were obviously having a moment," Tony continued, taking a step back towards the door, "so I'll come back later."

"Wait," Steve managed to whisper, but he was too late. The door was already closed, Tony's brisk pace faster than Steve's hesitation. He had his hand on the handle before he realized he wasn't going to go out into the hallway dressed like that. Still, he opened the door, intending to maybe call out to Tony if he was still within earshot.

Tony was standing right outside the door, his own hand on the frame. He was waiting. His eyes were still that inscrutable darkness that made Steve so aware of his own rabbiting heart.

"It's not what you think," Steve said the first thing that came to mind, and then cursed himself.

"I think that's a good color on you," Tony said. He was tense, almost vibrating, like when he was building something completely new, or ingesting nothing but coffee for more than twenty-four hours. The same kind of tense and shaky that Steve was.

Steve swallowed, and then took a step back and motioned Tony to enter again.

 

*

They'd spend comfortable, friendly time together after that, when there was no one else around. Steve, bolder and bolder with each occasion, would put on his dress and the two of them would just sit around, talk about this and that, sometimes about business, or about the newest developments in everything, or about history, or wars. Tony never made him feel ashamed of what he was wearing, and Steve slowly relaxed, became almost used to sitting with the thin fabric loose around his thighs while Tony was in his usual pants and t-shirt. He was coaxed into leaving his rooms, when the building was decidedly abandoned, venturing into the common areas, into Tony's lab, the kitchen. He was beginning to feel the freedom of having the whole place to himself.

Tony was a lot more clear in his commands to JARVIS about keeping privacy than Steve was, apparently. He promised Steve over and over again that no breach of security could be perpetrated without alarms and bells and whistles going off long before anyone could be near enough Steve to see him. The fact JARVIS hadn't alerted Steve to Tony's proximity that first day, well. Tony had a suspicion that JARVIS understood perfectly well that Steve didn't want to be disturbed, and that the AI had its own opinions and agenda. Steve didn't know what to think about that, but he was glad, eventually, after some very tense days, that it had happened. That he could have someone to share this with.

He finally got to go on the balcony platform and feel what it was like to stand tall under God's sky, in the wind and the air and the light drizzle that started pouring from the clouds above, letting the dress cling to his skin in wet caresses that made him laugh out loud. Tony was keeping watch, theoretically on the perimeter, but largely he was just looking at Steve. Steve would be self-conscious, but Tony was nothing but supportive. He even kept his banter to a minimum, as much as was in his power.

He had convinced Steve that it was okay to wear the panties under his regular clothes, that no one would know. Steve walked around New York all day one day in khakis and a sweater, and felt the tight stretch of bright orange microfiber against his ass with every single step. It was exhilarating.

Steve also tried to wander around the Avengers' building in his other outfit, the cheerleader one. He was deeply embarrassed the first time he exited his room in the tiny skirt and the matching top, but Tony just clapped him on the shoulder and encouraged him to come over and watch a movie with him. Two hours later, Steve almost forgot he was dressed like a strange chorus girl and sitting on a sofa with Howard Stark's kid. He felt like he was just a guy wearing comfortable clothes, watching a movie with another guy. That was what real freedom felt like. He smiled at Tony when the credits rolled.

"Thank you," he said simply.

"Sure thing, any time," Tony said, and leaped out of his chair. "Snacks, now? I feel a need for snacks. I ate a whole healthy meal today, Pepper made me, so I'm kinda craving something normal, made of salt and plastic. Wanna give me a hand?"

Steve was usually horrified by what Tony called food, especially considering the man's co-existing and apparently not mutually exclusive health food streak, but he didn't mind standing around and holding bowls and various bags and packets while Tony mounted an eight-course meal of complete junk. Besides, it gave him the opportunity to bring up something he'd been meaning to ask since that first time Tony barged in and caught him.

"You never told me what you think about... all of this," he said, gesturing to his clothes, short and revealing and brightly colored. He wasn't sure he wanted to know, but then, he had to. If this was compromising the team in any way, if it was compromising _him_ in Tony's eyes, he needed to be aware. He had to convince the other man that this changed nothing, that he was still the very same Steve Rogers he'd been all along. Tony already had a deep distrust of Captain America's image, and this could not have been helping. Steve was still the leader of the team, but there was no denying he was standing there in the kitchen wearing a skirt so short that if he had to pick up something off the floor, Tony would get an eyeful of recently purchased light-blue bikini briefs.

"I think this skirt is _obscenely_ short," Tony said with a lopsided grin, as if reading his mind. "Not saying that's a bad thing," he hurriedly added. "I'm all for it. You got the legs to pull it off."

It was so much like their everyday banter, Steve took his usual role in it. "Be serious."

"I am!" Tony protested, still grinning, and reached into Steve's personal space - this was the man who had poked Dr. Banner without fear - touching the hem of his pleated skirt. "Wouldn't go to battle in it, but then my armor's shinier than yours." He winked. "Look," he continued, more sincere, "we're none of us dressed the same out there as we are in private. I mean, the Black Widow has a pink smiley t-shirt from the actual Eighties."

For some reason that hit Steve. The Eighties, the Nineteen-Eighties, were a thing of the distant past. He remembered that date being of futuristic fiction. Along with the idea of men in women's clothing.

Tony continued talking about separating their lives from their image. He seemed to have given it much thought; Steve wasn't surprised.

"There's what's out there, Captain America," Tony waved his hand at the window, indicating the entire world, "that stupid uniform Phil salivates over. Then there's just-regular-Steve out there, in pants. And then there's Steve in here," he motioned to the space between them. "In your own kitchen. You can be comfortable in your own damn kitchen, Steve."

Steve didn't miss the open generosity of Stark referring to his building as if it was equally owned by every other resident. Throughout his rant, or speech, Tony kept earnest eye contact with him. Now he let his eyes drift down to Steve's outfit.

"And who knows, maybe one day you'll be comfortable out there, too," he said softly, and shrugged.

Steve couldn't imagine it. Even if the whole world had changed, and he knew for a fact it hadn't changed _that_ much, he thought this would always be just a private thing for him. Something that might be shared with people very close to him, maybe some day with a dame, but not something he even wanted to do in public. Maybe out in the open, in nature, in some remote place with trees and the wind caressing his skin. But not in the crowded streets of New York.

In his dreams, it would be on a stage among others like him. But Steve knew he wouldn't really seek that out. It wouldn't feel right with anyone but the people he remembered, and they were all sweet little old ladies by now, those of them who were still alive. He felt a pang going through his chest in memory of all the ones who weren't.

"I'm comfortable enough in what I usually wear," he told Tony quietly, confiding. "It's just sometimes..."

"I'm comfortable in a suit and tie," Tony cut him, his mind clearly still on the topic of presenting an image, "but I can't deny a bathrobe is fluffier. I still don't wear a bathrobe to board meetings. Anymore," he added in an afterthought.

Steve was plagued by an image of Pepper's reaction to _that_.

"And you have a choice," Tony continued, and this time he sounded more serious than at any point before. "Next time there's a black tie event we all have to go to, you can decide to wear a Versace gown. Who's gonna say anything?" He gave Steve a wide smile. "You're Captain America."

He picked up a bottle of orange juice and all the snacks he could get his hands on, and started out of the kitchen.

"Everyone's gonna say everything," Steve said quietly, picking up the rest of the food and following Tony back to the massive television screen. It was like going to the movies in a living room. He had no illusions about the level of acceptance he would receive out there in the hostile world, and he doubted Tony had any, either. It would be the end of him. It might be the end of the Avengers. He still wasn't sure how the rest of them would react if they'd find out, although he at least trusted them to accept him to some level. After you spill blood with people, they tend to be less picky about what you got up to in your own time.

"Well, yeah," Tony dismissed his worries. "The tabloids, okay, and the narrow minded bigots on the hill, but what do you care what they say?" He sniggered. "And Fury's gonna have an aneurysm."

Steve could almost imagine the SHIELD director's reaction, and he wished Tony wouldn't look so gleeful about it.

"I'm tempted to wear a dress too just to get that effect," Tony continued, stuffing a granola bar into his mouth. It wasn't all unhealthy, Steve noticed in surprise. And Tony was apparently unruffled by the idea of wearing women's clothes himself, although Steve could see it wasn't something he really felt the need to do. "We could do the next Pride Parade," Tony said through the food in his mouth. "Dance on a float. I'll buy a tennis style mini dress. I'm thinking something in red and gold, what do you think?" He swallowed and grinned.

"This isn't funny, Tony," Steve said sternly, but he couldn't really put his heart into it. Everything was so simple to Tony. Or at least, he always pretended it was.

"It's not sad, either," Tony said, and his voice was surprisingly soft.

*

Turned out Stark Industries had had a float in the parade for years now. Tony didn't end up wearing a red and gold dress, though he threatened to do so more than once. He did however head the parade that year, standing on top of the truck in his Iron Man suit and blasting exceedingly loud music - in Steve's opinion - through its hidden speakers.

Steve himself also chose not to wear any of his now-numerous dresses at the parade. He wore his uniform, and marched diligently under the beating sun alongside several other veterans of various wars, taking turns holding a flag that was half rainbow, half USA. His shield was slung across his back, proudly presenting its star to everyone trailing behind him.


End file.
